Chapter 1

Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Leonard Johnson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

COLLECTED POEMS

BY AUSTIN DOBSON

IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. II.

_Majores majora sonent_

NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS

_Copyright, 1895,_ BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

* * * * *

_All rights reserved._

University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.

_"For old sake's sake!" 'Twere hard to choose_ _Words fitter for an old-world Muse_ _Than these, that in their cadence bring_ _Faint fragrance of the posy-ring,_ _And charms that rustic lovers use._

_The long day lengthens, and we lose_ _The first pale flush, the morning hues,--_ _Ah! but the back-look, lingering,_ _For old sake's sake!_

That _we retain. Though Time refuse_ _To lift the veil on forward views,_ _Despot in most, he is not King_ _Of those kind memories that cling_ _Around his travelled avenues_ _For old sake's sake!_

"_Qui n'a pas l'esprit de son âge_ _De son âge a tout le malheur._" Voltaire.

CONTENTS.

Page AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE:-- The Ladies of St. James's 3 The Old Sedan Chair 6 To an Intrusive Butterfly 9 The Curé's Progress 11 The Masque of the Months 13 Two Sermons 17 "Au Revoir" 19 The Carver and the Caliph 26 To an Unknown Bust in the British Museum 29 Molly Trefusis 32 At the Convent Gate 36 The Milkmaid 38 An Old Fish-Pond 40 An Eastern Apologue 43 To a Missal of the Thirteenth Century 45 A Revolutionary Relic 48 A Madrigal 54 A Song to the Lute 56 A Garden Song 58 A Chapter of Froissart 60 To the Mammoth Tortoise 64 A Roman "Round-Robin" 66 Verses to Order 68 A Legacy 70 "Little Blue Ribbons" 72 Lines to a Stupid Picture 74 A Fairy Tale 76 To a Child 78 Household Art 80 The Distressed Poet 81 Jocosa Lyra 83 My Books 85 The Book-Plate's Petition 87 Palomydes 89 André le Chapelain 91 The Water of Gold 95 A Fancy from Fontenelle 97 Don Quixote 98 A Broken Sword 99 The Poet's Seat 101 The Lost Elixir 104

MEMORIAL VERSES:-- A Dialogue (Alexander Pope) 107 A Familiar Epistle (William Hogarth) 112 Henry Fielding 115 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 119 Charles George Gordon 120 Victor Hugo 121 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 122

FABLES OF LITERATURE AND ART:-- The Poet and the Critics 127 The Toyman 130 The Successful Author 133 The Dilettant 136 The Two Painters 138 The Claims of the Muse 140 The 'Squire at Vauxhall 144 The Climacteric 149

TALES IN RHYME:-- The Virgin with the Bells 155 A Tale of Polypheme 159 A Story from a Dictionary 170 The Water Cure 178 The Noble Patron 184

VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ:-- Incognita 193 Dora _versus_ Rose 197 Ad Rosam 200 Outward Bound 205 In the Royal Academy 208 The Last Despatch 213 "Premiers Amours" 216 The Screen in the Lumber Room 219 Daisy's Valentines 221 In Town 224 A Sonnet in Dialogue 227 Growing Gray 229

VARIA:-- The Maltworm's Madrigal 233 An April Pastoral 236 A New Song of the Spring Gardens 237 A Love Song, 1700 239 Of his Mistress 240 The Nameless Charm 242 To Phidyle 243 To his Book 244 For a Copy of Herrick 246 With a Volume of Verse 247 For the Avery "Knickerbocker" 248 To a Pastoral Poet 250 "Sat est Scripsisse" 251

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES:-- Prologue and Envoi to Abbey's Edition of "She Stoops to Conquer" 257 Prologue and Epilogue to Abbey's "Quiet Life" 264

NOTES 271

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

_"At the Sign of the Lyre,"_ _Good Folk, we present you_ _With the pick of our quire,_ _And we hope to content you!_

_Here be Ballad and Song,_ _The fruits of our leisure,_ _Some short and some long--_ _May they all give you pleasure!_

_But if, when you read,_ _They should fail to restore you,_ _Farewell, and God-speed--_ _The world is before you!_

THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S.

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.

"_Phyllida amo ante alias._" Virg.

The ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them, With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at _Ombre_, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's! They are so fine and fair, You'd think a box of essences Was broken in the air: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! The breath of heath and furze, When breezes blow at morning, Is not so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays for ever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her colour comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,-- It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's! You scarce can understand The half of all their speeches, Their phrases are so grand: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are clear as after rain-drops The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's! They have their fits and freaks; They smile on you--for seconds, They frown on you--for weeks: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Come either storm or shine, From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, Is always true--and mine.

My Phyllida! my Phyllida! I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be, For Phyllida--for Phyllida Is all the world to me!

THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR.

"_What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?_ _Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?_" Bramston's "Art of Politicks."

It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves, Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves: It once was the pride of the gay and the fair, But now 'tis a ruin,--that old Sedan chair!

It is battered and tattered,--it little avails That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails; For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square, Like a canvas by Wilkie,--that old Sedan chair!

See,--here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes For the poles of the bearers--when once there were poles; It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair, As the birds have discovered,--that old Sedan chair!

"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,--under the seat, Is a nest with four eggs,--'tis the favoured retreat Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear, Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!

And yet--Can't you fancy a face in the frame Of the window,--some high-headed damsel or dame, Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair, While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?

Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands, With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire, As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague; Stout fellows!--but prone, on a question of fare, To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!

It has waited by portals where Garrick has played; It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade;" For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair, It has waited--and waited, that old Sedan chair!

Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,-- Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!) Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!

"_Heu! quantum mutata_," I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,--"With Care,"-- To a Fine-Art Museum--that old Sedan chair!

TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY.

"_Kill not--for Pity's sake--and lest ye slay_ _The meanest thing upon its upward way._" Five Rules of Buddha.

I watch you through the garden walks, I watch you float between The avenues of dahlia stalks, And flicker on the green; You hover round the garden seat, You mount, you waver. Why,-- Why storm us in our still retreat, O saffron Butterfly!

Across the room in loops of flight I watch you wayward go; Dance down a shaft of glancing light, Review my books a-row; Before the bust you flaunt and flit Of "blind Mæonides"-- Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit Not butterflies, but bees!

You pause, you poise, you circle up Among my old Japan; You find a comrade on a cup, A friend upon a fan; You wind anon, a breathing-while, Around AMANDA'S brow;-- Dost dream her then, O Volatile! E'en such an one as thou?

Away! Her thoughts are not as thine. A sterner purpose fills Her steadfast soul with deep design Of baby bows and frills; What care hath she for worlds without, What heed for yellow sun, Whose endless hopes revolve about A planet, _ætat_ One!

Away! Tempt not the best of wives; Let not thy garish wing Come fluttering our Autumn lives With truant dreams of Spring! Away! Re-seek thy "Flowery Land;" Be Buddha's law obeyed; Lest Betty's undiscerning hand Should slay ... a future PRAED!

THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS.

Monsieur the Curé down the street Comes with his kind old face,-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

You may see him pass by the little "_Grande Place_," And the tiny "_Hôtel-de-Ville_"; He smiles, as he goes, to the _fleuriste_ Rose, And the _pompier_ Théophile.

He turns, as a rule, through the "_Marché_" cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call; And his compliment pays to the "_Belle Thérèse_," As she knits in her dusky stall.

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes In his tails for a _pain d'épice_.

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "_Ma foi, oui!_" And a pinch from the Curé's box.

There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a "_Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!_"

But a grander way for the _Sous-Préfet_, And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne; And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat, And a nod to the Sacristan:--

For ever through life the Curé goes With a smile on his kind old face-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS.

(FOR A FRESCO.)

Firstly thou, churl son of Janus, Rough for cold, in drugget clad, Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;-- Firstly thou, churl son of Janus. Caverned now is old Sylvanus; Numb and chill are maid and lad.

After thee thy dripping brother, Dank his weeds around him cling; Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,-- After thee thy dripping brother. Hearth-set couples hush each other, Listening for the cry of Spring.

Hark! for March thereto doth follow, Blithe,--a herald tabarded; O'er him flies the shifting swallow,-- Hark! for March thereto doth follow. Swift his horn, by holt and hollow, Wakes the flowers in winter dead.

Thou then, April, Iris' daughter, Born between the storm and sun; Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,-- Thou then, April, Iris' daughter. Now are light, and rustling water; Now are mirth, and nests begun.

May the jocund cometh after, Month of all the Loves (and mine); Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,-- May the jocund cometh after. Beaks are gay on roof and rafter; Luckless lovers peak and pine.

June the next, with roses scented, Languid from a slumber-spell; June in shade of leafage tented;-- June the next, with roses scented. Now her Itys, still lamented, Sings the mournful Philomel.

Hot July thereafter rages, Dog-star smitten, wild with heat; Fierce as pard the hunter cages,-- Hot July thereafter rages. Traffic now no more engages; Tongues are still in stall and street.

August next, with cider mellow, Laughs from out the poppied corn; Hook at back, a lusty fellow,-- August next, with cider mellow. Now in wains the sheafage yellow 'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.

Laden deep with fruity cluster, Then September, ripe and hale; Bees about his basket fluster,-- Laden deep with fruity cluster. Skies have now a softer lustre; Barns resound to flap of flail.

Thou then, too, of woodlands lover, Dusk October, berry-stained; Wailed about of parting plover,-- Thou then, too, of woodlands lover. Fading now are copse and cover; Forests now are sere and waned.

Next November, limping, battered, Blinded in a whirl of leaf; Worn of want and travel-tattered,-- Next November, limping, battered. Now the goodly ships are shattered, Far at sea, on rock and reef.

Last of all the shrunk December Cowled for age, in ashen gray; Fading like a fading ember,-- Last of all the shrunk December. Him regarding, men remember Life and joy must pass away.

TWO SERMONS.

Between the rail of woven brass, That hides the "Strangers' Pew," I hear the gray-haired vicar pass From Section One to Two.

And somewhere on my left I see-- Whene'er I chance to look-- A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily, Who notes them--in a book.

Ah, worthy GOODMAN,--sound divine! Shall I your wrath incur, If I admit these thoughts of mine Will sometimes stray--to her?

I know your theme, and I revere; I hear your precepts tried; Must I confess I also hear A sermon at my side?

Or how explain this need I feel,-- This impulse prompting me Within my secret self to kneel To Faith,--to Purity!

"AU REVOIR."

A DRAMATIC VIGNETTE.

SCENE.--_The Fountain in the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is surrounded by Promenaders._

MONSIEUR JOLICOEUR. A LADY (_unknown_).

M. JOLICOEUR. 'Tis she, no doubt. Brunette,--and tall: A charming figure, above all! This promises.--Ahem!

THE LADY. Monsieur? Ah! it is three. Then Monsieur's name Is JOLICOEUR?...

M. JOLICOEUR. Madame, the same.

THE LADY. And Monsieur's goodness has to say?... Your note?...

M. JOLICOEUR. _Your_ note.

THE LADY. Forgive me.--Nay. (_Reads_) "_If Madame_ [I omit] _will be_ _Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,_ _Then Madame--possibly--may hear_ _News of her Spaniel._ JOLICOEUR." Monsieur denies his note?

M. JOLICOEUR. I do. Now let me read the one from you. "_If Monsieur Jolicoeur will be_ _Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,_ _Then Monsieur--possibly--may meet_ _An old Acquaintance. 'INDISCREET_.'"

THE LADY (_scandalized_). Ah, what a folly! 'Tis not true. I never met Monsieur. And you?

M. JOLICOEUR (_with gallantry_). Have lived in vain till now. But see: We are observed.

THE LADY. (_looking round_). I comprehend.... (_After a pause._) Monsieur, malicious brains combine For your discomfiture, and mine. Let us defeat that ill design. If Monsieur but ... (_hesitating_).

M. JOLICOEUR (_bowing_). Rely on me.

THE LADY (_still hesitating_). Monsieur, I know, will understand ...

M. JOLICOEUR. Madame, I wait but your command.

THE LADY. You are too good. Then condescend At once to be a new-found Friend!

M. JOLICOEUR (_entering upon the part forthwith_). How? I am charmed,--enchanted. Ah! What ages since we met ... at _Spa_?

THE LADY (_a little disconcerted_). At _Ems_, I think. Monsieur, maybe, Will recollect the Orangery?

M. JOLICOEUR. At _Ems_, of course. But Madame's face Might make one well forget a place.

THE LADY. It seems so. Still, Monsieur recalls The Kürhaus, and the concert-balls?

M. JOLICOEUR. Assuredly. Though there again 'Tis Madame's image I retain.

THE LADY. Monsieur is skilled in ... repartee. (How do they take it?--Can you see?)

M. JOLICOEUR. Nay,--Madame furnishes the wit. (They don't know what to make of it!)

THE LADY. And Monsieur's friend who sometimes came?... That clever ... I forget the name.

M. JOLICOEUR. The BARON?... It escapes me, too. 'Twas doubtless he that Madame knew?

THE LADY (_archly_). Precisely. But, my carriage waits. Monsieur will see me to the gates?

M. JOLICOEUR (_offering his arm_). I shall be charmed. (Your stratagem Bids fair, I think, to conquer them.) (_Aside_) (Who is she? I must find that out.) --And Madame's husband thrives, no doubt?

THE LADY (_off her guard_). Monsieur de BEAU--?... He died at _Dôle_!

M. JOLICOEUR. Truly. How sad! (_Aside_) (Yet, on the whole, How fortunate! BEAU-_pré_?--BEAU-_vau_? Which can it be? Ah, there they go!) --Madame, your enemies retreat With all the honours of ... defeat.

THE LADY. Thanks to Monsieur. Monsieur has shown A skill PRÉVILLE could not disown.

M. JOLICOEUR. You flatter me. We need no skill To act so nearly what we will. Nay,--what may come to pass, if Fate And Madame bid me cultivate ...

THE LADY (_anticipating_). Alas!--no farther than the gate. Monsieur, besides, is too polite To profit by a jest so slight.

M. JOLICOEUR. Distinctly. Still, I did but glance At possibilities ... of Chance.

THE LADY. Which must not serve Monsieur, I fear, Beyond the little grating here.

M. JOLICOEUR (_aside_). (She's perfect. One may push too far, _Piano, sano_.) (_They reach the gates._) Here we are. Permit me, then ... (_Placing her in the carriage._) And Madame goes?... Your coachman?... Can I?...

THE LADY (_smiling_). Thanks! he knows. Thanks! Thanks!

M. JOLICOEUR (_insidiously_). And shall we not renew Our ... "_Ems_ acquaintanceship?"

THE LADY (_still smiling_). Adieu! My thanks instead!

M. JOLICOEUR (_with pathos_). It is too hard! (_Laying his hand on the grating._) To find one's Paradise is barred!!

THE LADY. Nay.--"Virtue is her own Reward!" [_Exit._

M. JOLICOEUR (_solus_). BEAU-_vau_?--BEAU-_vallon_?--BEAU-_manoir_?-- But that's a detail! (_Waving his hand after the carriage._) AU REVOIR!

THE CARVER AND THE CALIPH.

(_We lay our story in the East. Because 'tis Eastern? Not the least. We place it there because we fear To bring its parable too near, And seem to touch with impious hand Our dear, confiding native land._)

HAROUN ALRASCHID, in the days He went about his vagrant ways, And prowled at eve for good or bad In lanes and alleys of BAGDAD, Once found, at edge of the bazaar, E'en where the poorest workers are, A Carver.

Fair his work and fine With mysteries of inlaced design, And shapes of shut significance To aught but an anointed glance,-- The dreams and visions that grow plain In darkened chambers of the brain.

And all day busily he wrought From dawn to eve, but no one bought;-- Save when some Jew with look askant, Or keen-eyed Greek from the Levant, Would pause awhile,--depreciate,-- Then buy a month's work by the weight, Bearing it swiftly over seas To garnish rich men's treasuries.